111ST LETTER TO ELENA
A few notches after four
in the miscalled morning.
A dark wind howls.
Have you lately considered the stars?
The word “consider” contains stars,
as you likely know. Sidera,
plural, neuter, third declension.
The doughnut shop across the street
opens in less than an hour. I might go
say hello to Sophia, to Kenya, to
the Brazilian woman with the shrieking voice
that is the Ides of March to my nerves and spine.
I’ll grab a cup of mud and sit awhile.
And then, afterwards, I might linger
under the sky, which wears black longer
so close to the colder solstice,
and I’ll stand, I’ll tarry under the stars
that give me courage, “strange courage”
as they shine, so steady and resolute,
so swerveless and imperturbable,
upon our fractious and fractured world.
112TH LETTER TO ELENA
I met a new exciting person last night
whom I am choosing to call
New Exciting Person.
I could give you the particulars,
I could tell you that she’s bright
and has a sense of humour!
I could tell you that she casually drops phrases
like “constellations falling from the aether”
and that she loves Neil Young.
I could tell you she’s thirty-five at the outside,
has dark hair, wears glasses, probably knows
more languages than I do, certainly knows
more science than I do! She is slender and energetic;
she is alive in a way that makes me alive.
But do the particulars matter
as much as the wacky gratitude,
the radical thankability?
I’m buzzed on that danke schön,
tipsy on the muchas gracias,
high on the happy.
GOD
a priest heard my confession yesterday
and told me that God isn’t static
God is kinetic, God is Pentecost
she doesn’t get moldy or mildewed
she will flame out like shining from shook foil
she will walk barefoot in damp June grass
God is the 11th Step and the Allston nooner
she is Dean Amy and the poets of Black Seed
she is every Jennifer whom I have ever known
she is the ladybug and Theodore Roethke
she is the hyacinth and Mary Oliver
she is the solacing 5 am barista
who calls me Jackie Onassis
she is acolyte and apostate : hierophant and heretic
she is humanity in all its glorious imperfection
she doesn’t always know what will come next
she is spiritwind spiritflame spiritlove spiritrage
she is a candle in the gathering gloom
she is a black thorn stick in the hands of Seamus Heaney
a sparrow in the cell of St Kevin
a lake of beer in the precinct of St Brigid
a hazelnut in the hand of holy Julian
she is the cloister at Clonmacnoise
the rabbit bounding across the grass of Spencer
living water : spendthrift of mercy : tender toward the brokenhearted
she gives life, she restores life, she is life in us
Bio:
Thomas DeFreitas was born in Boston in 1969. A graduate of Boston Latin School, he attended the University of Massachusetts, both in Boston and in Amherst. His poems have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Plainsongs, Dappled Things, Ibbetson Street, Pensive, and elsewhere. Three of his collections have been published by Kelsay Books, most recently Swift River Ballad (2023).
OVUNQUE SIAMO 